MEDITATION ON THE NIGHT SKY AND A DOG

On a recent summer night I sat on my deck and gazed at the sky. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just wondering, “What’s up there? Who’s out there?” Given the light pollution in St. Louis County, very few stars were visible. Still, I knew millions of celestial bodies were up there. From hot and bright to cold and dark.

Earlier that week another rocket had climbed from its launch pad in Florida, headed towards the International Space Station. Here we are, in 2019, when "space station" and "moon landing" and rockets built by billionaires have become concepts so commonplace, we forget what incredible feats we’re witnessing.

When I was ten or eleven years old, I immersed myself in science-fiction stories by the great writers. Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke, A.E. Van Vogt (I still don’t know what A.E. stands for), Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein. The magical list goes on, stories that took me to the furthest reaches of the universe, of time, of imagination. I also had a complete collection of “Weird Science” and “Weird Fantasy” EC comic books, which my mother pitched when my parents moved while I was in the Army. “I thought you were through with those,” she told me. I never fully forgave her. I still sink into the grip of nostalgia when I see a piece of art by Wallace Wood or Jack Davis or Al Feldstein.

Space travel? Only in those stories. We were still an earthbound race. 

In 1950 I traveled to Mars with Ray Bradbury when I read “The Martian Chronicles.” I explored the Red Planet with his characters, convincingly transported to some possible future. 

Here’s an example of Bradbury’s magic from that book:

     "The rocket lay on the launching field, blowing out pink clouds of fire

     and oven heat. The rocket stood in the cold winter morning, making

     summer with every breath of its might exhausts. The rocket made

     climates, and summer lay for a brief moment upon the land..."

Bradbury turned science and technology into poetry.

Today we watch a rocket take off on TV or iPhone or laptop, and, I would guess, we are not captivated by the majesty and sense of wonder it deserves. We’ve become used to amazing accomplishments of science. Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos, familiar names now, have their own dreams and plans for space travel. They follow closely on the heels of the pioneers who took us “up there,” the scientists and astronauts of NASA. Several other countries have claimed their place in space as the human race hungers for knowledge of the beyond, as well as military and economic leverage. No, this is not fiction.

Which brings me to a dog named Laika. She was a husky-spitz mix, a stray found on the streets of Moscow. The Soviets were building Sputnik 2 and wanted to send an animal into space. Laika got the call. Sad to say, she didn’t survive the journey. The scientists didn’t expect her to. She remained in her capsule for five months, not alive, until it plunged into the Caribbean, a dog’s coffin turned shooting star. Laika became a sort of canine Soviet hero, the first animal in space, memorialized on stamps, posters, plates, even a book called “Laika, Space Dog. Friend of the People.” America, at the time, was behind in the race, but would eventually send monkeys into space. The Soviets figured stray dogs wouldn’t be missed.

Dogs are a reminder for us. They were the first animals that we domesticated. The first to migrate with us across continents. They are our constant, understanding companions and have never left us, despite our failings. Dogs humanize us, something to remember as we begin to humanize space.

Now we are taking our giant steps into space. Not just rockets blasting off from the United States, Russia, and China, but from India, French Guiana, Japan, Kazakhstan. And more to follow. Humans in space? Check. Humans on the moon? Check. Humans on the International Space Station? Check. Humans on Mars? Yes, we’ll get there. And beyond. Because we are not alone in the universe. We are just a small part of that vast canopy of night sky that holds so much attraction for us. I, for one, will never get tired of looking up at night and wondering, “Who or what is out there?”

A slightly shorter version was originally published in County Living Magazine, Sept. 2019.

Me and Ray

He took me by the hand and led me to strange and wonderful worlds. He taught me that time does not necessarily move forward, that the past surrounds us, that living on Mars might be preferable to living on Earth. He introduced me to the Golden Apples of the Sun and The Illustrated Man and The Fog Horn and even a middle-of-the-night return of Laurel and Hardy as they moved the piano up that long flight of steps.

His name was Ray Bradbury and he wrote his final sentence last Tuesday.

I knew he was old (91), in poor health; still, he found the words and ideas to write an essay for last week’s New Yorker magazine, a special issue on Science-Fiction. The title of his essay? "Take Me Home." I guess not even this magnificent writer could find an alternate ending, a way to slip past the encroachment of time. 

Really, though, is any writer ever dead? His stories and books rest on my bookshelves and speak in my imagination. I see myself at the age of 14 or 15, lying in bed at night by the lamp, totally lost in one of Ray’s worlds. His choice of words, his phrases, his ideas were like music and poetry to me. I still can see the large spread in a 1952 Collier’s Magazine, featuring his story “A Sound of Thunder.” It boggled (love that word) my mind. There’s a line in that story that showed how changing the past, even minutely, can have shattering effect in the present. A traveler to the past comes back to the present, to a world that has changed drastically. He discovers one of his boots is covered with mud. He looks at his boot.

“Embedded in the mud, glistening green and gold and black, was a butterfly, very beautiful and very dead.” 

I still have “The Big Book of Science Fiction,” edited by Groff Conklin, published in 1950, signed by Ray on Nov. 14, 1996. I bought that book when it was new, read the stories by Theodore Sturgeon, Murray Leinster, Lester del Rey, Arthur C. Clarke, Robert Heinlein. But the master, for me, was Ray Bradbury. I saw him on two occasions, when he was in St. Louis for book signings. 1990 and 1996. I stood there with my books, making dumb conversation, trying to prolong the moment as long as possible before the line behind me got impatient.

In our digital age of Kindle and Nook, Twitter and Facebook, emails and blogs, a time when publishers are fearful and anybody can publish a manuscript quite easily....In this age, it’s comforting to know that some things remain. I can walk by my book shelves, stop and look at Ray’s books, touch the cover as I would touch a friend on the shoulder. 

I can say, “Good to see you, Ray. Glad you’re here.”